


Swan Queen

by plathitudes



Category: Kushiel's Legacy - Jacqueline Carey
Genre: Drabble, Gen, Wordcount: 100-500, Wordcount: 300
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-20
Updated: 2012-11-20
Packaged: 2017-11-19 02:43:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/568172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plathitudes/pseuds/plathitudes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Her throne is its own little palace." Ysandre knows she cannot bear the crown forever, but she will last as long as she can stand it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swan Queen

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive the title. This is intended as the first part of a few fics dealing with the de la Courcel women; the next in line are probably Sidonie and Jehanne.

Her throne is its own little palace. It’s gilt and gold, carven flowers and beasts’ tongues, velvet and painted wood. The seat looks plush, purple as deep as her eyes, but the centuries have worn the stuffing away, and she can feel the hardness underneath even through her gown, digging into the soft places behind her knees, in the small of her back. She sits on her dais, raised above even the most powerful nobles who come sauntering through the doors, and feels her body breaking itself slowly, to fit the shape of her seat. She sits, still, and feels every layer of prejudice and personality stripped from her, layer by peeling layer, until she’s nothing but a voice with a crown, Terre d’Ange itself speaking through her.

Then she steps down, stands alone in her bedchamber and knows that this is mere affectation, a fantasy she’s made up so she can feel comforted when she wants to believe that being queen is not taking too deep a toll on her.

She never pretended not to be vain. She is d’Angeline. She admires the profile on the sides of gold coins, feels herself fashioned out of metal and jewels and precious ivory, beyond all mortal witherings. She is the daughter of gods, blessed, wearer of a crown made in the time of Elua himself, a crown whose weight never seems too great when it is on.

It’s only when she takes it off that she sees the deep lines cut across her forehead, the grey in her hair, the slight bend to her swan-neck. One day she will step onto the dais and settle into her throne, and find herself only Ysandre, thick with jewels and uncertain and tired.

Not yet. But oh, so soon.


End file.
